


Let us not speak for a while, husband

by duchessofclarence



Category: The White Queen (TV)
Genre: F/M, Philippa Gregory, War of the Roses, the white queen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 09:51:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duchessofclarence/pseuds/duchessofclarence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George is enraptured in grief and guilt over the death of his child, until he reconciles with his wife and remembers her virtues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let us not speak for a while, husband

The rain beat down upon the discarded shields that lay in the training square; with each gust of wind he could hear the whistle between the alcoves around him. It would have been bustling with soldiers and servants if the weather had permitted it, but all sane inhabitants of the court had returned indoors to the warmth of their hearths. He was not sure if he could be considered sane in that moment – suited in his saturated armour with a sword in hand and a heart that wept inwardly for the loss of his son. He was never a man that could show his emotions on his sleeve, for it was seen as a weakness that George would not and could not be considered weak. 

_Children die all the time_ , he told himself. _And mothers die in childbirth._

The Duke lowered his head as hot tears threatened to spill down his cheeks and taint his stoic countenance that he wrestled to maintain. His face was a perfect sculpture of indifference when he raised his head and looked towards the other soldier who had just chosen his own weapon from the cart. It was necessary that he exerted all of his time into something other than thoughts of his dead child and a wife who would not even kiss him goodnight now that he was to blame for such an unfortunate death.

“Should we not wait till the rain ceases, my lord?” the soldier called out. 

George looked at the man with such disdain; his face a concoction of emotions. He did not bother to satisfy the soldier with a response, for instead he lifted his shield from the soaked cart and wandered out of the alcove and into the square. 

“Come now, Thomas, it is merely rain. I doubt it will kill us all.”

The men circled each other until finally the moment struck and their swords clashed like a clap of thunder in the silent square; no sound could be heard but steel on steel as sword hit shield during each attack. Thomas trembled with wariness as he watched his master brandish the blade as if he were possessed by the devil himself. 

George could feel the stare of another on his back, and he knew without turning that his wife looked down at him from the safety of their quarters. He could almost taste the scorn on her skin as she remained there, watching him. He was to blame, and he was to be punished for what he had unleashed on her at sea – he should have stood against Warwick, for then he would have content wife and child at his side. 

He could see the little boy with his blue lips and forever-closed eyes in his mind, and then his vigour escalated to the point where he swung his sword frantically in the soldier’s direction. His muscles ached with lack of sleep and endless training and beads of sweat coated his skin, still slick with the rain that seemed to become heavier as his anger became more potent. It was with one blow to the head that George fell, for it was the hilt of his opponent’s sword that tore him from his madness. 

The Duke of Clarence fell to his knees, his vision impaired for a moment or so as the rain blurred all that lay in front of him. He could feel the warmth of blood trickled from his forehead until he could taste the metallic liquid in his mouth. George could feel the hand of the soldier reach towards him, to help him from the wet ground. 

“Leave me,” George snarled, throwing his sword and shield to the cobblestones, followed by the bulk of his armour and chainmail. His head throbbed from the blow that he received, but apart from that it was his own madness that plagued him. He left the training square with a turn of his heel and did not look above to see the discontent on his dear wife’s features, for his mood slid further into darkness and he would not see her tainted by his outbursts more than necessary. 

_How could she marry such a selfish man?_ He often thought to himself. He knew that there had been whispers that Isabel married him for such a title as Duchess of Clarence, but he had known her since she was a mere child and she had talked of her desire to marry someone for love and adoration. George could see how she looked at him, with such reverence and devotion that he did not deserve. It seemed that the entire world could see his worthlessness, but she could not. No matter how many times she became the sole victim of his foul moods, she would still return to his bedchamber and pretend as if it had not occurred. _My poor, sweet wife._

His feet were heavy on the stones beneath him as he entered their private quarters, hands still shaking from the brief battle beforehand. There she was, standing like a beautiful statue with her hands held in front of her and a look of sadness on her face. _I would clear that sadness from you forever, if I knew how to do so._

“You have been injured,” she spoke in a soft murmur. 

“It is but a mere scratch; do not concern yourself with it.”

George took his seat on a chair nearest the balcony as a servant girl shuffled forward as fast as she could with a bowl of warm water and a piece of cloth for his wound. She knelt in front of him, a girl of about fourteen with mousy brown hair, and submerged the cloth in the bowl of water to cleanse the blood from his face. However, before he could feel the warm touch of the cloth upon his brow, his wife moved from her statuesque position on the balcony and took the cloth from the servant girl. 

“Bring some wine,” George barked at the girl in his usual fashion of impatience.

The servant nodded and scuffled away like the mere mouse that she was, wary in the presence of her master and confused as to why her mistress could love such a man. 

Isabel knelt in front of her lord husband and soaked the cloth in the bowl of hot water, squeezing it so that excess droplets fell back into the bowl. Her hands were soft and warm as she swept his dark hair out of his eyes and began to clean the blood around the wound so that she could see his sour expression once more. She dabbed warily at his wound as he clenched the arms of the chair in either pain or anger. The servant girl came back with a chalice of wine for the Duke and made to leave once more with the bottle, only George reached out and clutched it from her grasp. 

“You could have caught your death in that rain,” his wife insisted. 

“Perhaps I wish for it.” 

She paused as these words reached her ears. Their union had not been as easy as it had been at the start, for she had lost her first child and her father perished. Isabel knew that her life would never be the same now, and she must adjust, but ever since she cast her blame on her husband on the ship to Calais, he had resented himself very much.

“I would wish for my own swift death if you were taken from me,” she whispered. 

It wasn’t often that the Duke and Duchess would utter such words of comfort between each other, nor would they hold hands in the privacy of their own quarters. They had both been tainted as cold, statuesque beings – but however cold their exterior seemed to be to the rest of court, both knew that they were as warm as a kindling fire within. Isabel and George could feel pain as any other man and woman would, and sometimes others seemed to forget this when they whispered traitor behind them.

George did not speak after his wife’s sudden declaration of the love that he always suspected that she held for him, even since they were children. He took that moment to look at her, as she touched his face with such affection. He could not see this before, but she had such an affinity for care and devotion. She wasn’t at all what she perceived herself to be as a child, for George now understood that she wasn’t like all the other ridiculous girls that pranced around for his attention.

“Do you not still blame me for a great many things?” he inquired, with an expression that would have revealed indifference – but his stomach clenched with nerves. 

“No,” she answered with a small smile. “I have spent a great deal of time grieving the loss of my child and then the loss of my father. I felt so alone for a while, but then I would glance at you across the room or feel your warmth next to me in bed and I would understand that we only have each other in this wretched world now.”

George looked at his wife with sadness in his dark eyes. She was so beautiful, knelt in front of him with her parted lips and her button nose. 

“I am not as blessed with the gift of wise words as you are, Isabel.” 

Instead of reaching deep inside to pull out whatever ridiculous words that he could muster, he did something that he wouldn’t often do. George reached forward and rested his hand behind her neck, pulling her forward until he could feel the warm touch of her lips on his own. She tasted of sweet summer fruit and trembled under his touch, whether in fear or passion, he did not know. 

However, as he pulled away from her adoring embrace, he saw tears in her eyes and a smile of her face that revealed her happiness at such a union. George knew in that moment, that he did not see many of his wife’s virtues before. He had made his own downfall over and over, but she could certainly become his salvation. 

“Then let us not speak for a while, husband.”

And there it was – that devilish smile of hers that he loved so much, and words were not enough for that moment as they chose to partake in other leisurely activities.


End file.
